12:44

To conserve ice,
I rub it on burned fingers

before putting it in my drink.
The egg burning still.  

Lightning and sun on the leaves,
blue-grey behind the brownstones.

Too powerful, the bird call
outside, above the chainsaw.  

Engine; bark; brakes:
constant sounds of the city,

not often helpful.
I've brought no clothes

for a funeral. I’m rationalizing
a death. This place

becomes my home. Brooklyn,
the brownstone.  

Home, you go insane.
My head, a virtual idea file.  

Get a microphone.
It empties all the time.

Conserve the ice
when it's hot outside

when you don’t want to leave.
I make a large mess.

Red bricks against
green leaves.

— Claire Becker (© 2008)


 <